Page 8 of The Playboy and the Widow
“But, Mom, this skirt is the absolute!”
Diana sighed. “I appreciate the offer, sweetie, but it’s about four sizes too small. Besides, I have no intention of looking like Katy Perry.”
“But Cliff’s so handsome.”
Leave it to Joan to notice that. This year Diana had seen a major transformation take hold of her elder daughter. After one week of fifth grade, Joan had wanted her ears pierced and would have killed for fake nails. The youngster argued that Diana was being completely unreasonable to make her wait until junior high before wearing makeup. Everyone wore eye shadow and Diana must have been reared in the Middle Ages if she didn’t know that. Boys were quickly becoming all-important, too. Fifth grade! How times had changed.
“Are you going to wear your pearl earrings?” Joan asked next.
The pair were Diana’s best and saved for only the most festive occasions. “I—I’m not sure.”
She wasn’t sure about anything. Shirley seemed convinced Diana was making the mistake of her life by having anything to do with Cliff.
Her neighbor claimed he was a notorious playboy who would end up breaking her fragile heart. He was sophisticated, urbane and completely ruthless about using his polished good looks to get what he wanted from a woman, or so Shirley claimed. Next she had admitted that she was half in love with him herself, but as Diana’s self-appointed guardian, Shirley couldn’t bear thinking what could happen to her friend in the hands of Cliff Howard.
After Shirley’s briefing, Diana was too curious to find out to consider canceling the date.
“Mom, the earrings,” Joan repeated impatiently.
Her daughter’s shrill voice broke into Diana’s thoughts. “I don’t think so.”
“Do it, Mom.”
“But if I wear them now, I won’t have anything to razzle-dazzle Cliff with later.”
Joan chewed on the corner of her lower lip, grudgingly accepting her mother’s decision. “Right, but what about your hair?”
“What about it?” Diana’s hair was styled the way she always wore it, parted on the side and feathered back away from her face.
Joan looked unsure. “You look so ordinary, like this is an everyday date or something.”
“I don’t think now would be the time to experiment with something different.”
“I suppose you’re right,” Joan admitted reluctantly.
Diana checked her watch; she had plenty of time, but the way Joan kept suggesting changes wasn’t doing a whole lot for her self-confidence. Maybe her daughter was right, and it was time to do something different with her hair and makeup. But age thirty was upon her, and no matter how she parted her hair or applied her makeup, she wasn’t going to look like Stacey Q., Joan’s favorite female rock star. Well, almost favorite. Stacey Q. ran a close second to Katy Perry.
When Diana came out of the bathroom, she discovered her daughter sorting through her closet. “I have what I’m going to wear on the bed.”
“But, Mom, black pants and a blouse are so boring.”
“The blouse is silk,” she told her coaxingly.
“Men like black silk, not white.”
Diana preferred not to know where Joan had gotten that little tidbit of information. The child was amazing. While Diana slipped into the pants, Joan lay across the queen-size mattress and propped her chin up with her hands.
“You know who Cliff reminds me of?” Joan asked with a dreamy look clouding her blue eyes.
“Who?”
“Christian Bale.”
“Who?” Diana stopped dressing long enough to turn around and face her daughter.
“You know, the actor.”
Diana sighed. “I suppose he does faintly resemble him, but Cliff’s hair is dark.”
